Recovered
by 1000th Ghost
Summary: Emily (the ghost bride) and George (Master Gracey, the ghost host) suddenly have to share a coffin.


**Recovered**

**By: 1000th Ghost**

_"Emily's body was never recovered."_

_-Haunted Mansion's Ghost Gallery: Emily Gracey's Wedding Band_

The year was two thousand and...well, two thousand and something, specifics tended to become fuzzy to the dead. Two thousand and long enough that, inevitably, modern structures were wanted in the surrounding area, and new developments were constructed. Master Gracey paid little attention. The projects did not affect his property, and there was no reason for him to care.

Until the projects unearthed his property - the most important property he had ever had and the last property he would have predicted - and forced him to care.

He had a headstone (a rather impressive one, at that), and to the left of him was Gordon, and to the right of him was Dave, and Leota was way far down, somehow having maneuvered herself into the intimate family plot. And, naturally, the vast majority of the nine hundred and ninety-nine happy haunts had a resting place with a proper burial marker. Such was a spirit's right.

But Emily had no headstone. Emily's body had been lost long, oh, very, very long, ago when the horses pulling her hearse galloped wildly away that fateful funeral day. He had sent the servants to search, of course, but the hearse was found completely passengerless. Really, there was nothing else he could have done about the matter. The swamplands surrounding the Mansion were thick and largely impenetrable, and he hadn't the resources nor manpower to conquer them. Apparently, though, in two thousand and now, the abilities were available.

No one even knew who she was until records were looked up. A sad story, a pang of sorrow, a sense of completion, and someone thought the best thing to do with the corpse was to finally reunite it with its groom-who-never-was-to-be.

His physical situation was mostly controllable, which he was immensely thankful for. He could be under the ground, hanging from the attic rafters, moving invisibly through his home, wherever and whenever he wanted, which meant that he never had to be in her particular area of the attic, never had to journey to where her spirit remained, never had to endure her wrath.

Now, before he had time to catch his lack-of-breath, girl in coffin!, slam the lid!, shovel the dirt!, a prayer was said, a tear was shed, and, heaven, help him, her hair was still blond.

"_Emily._" It came out as a rushed whisper that he hadn't meant to say.

They were on their sides facing each other; there hadn't been room enough to place them on their backs. So, he couldn't miss how the eyeless sockets that _glowed_ resonated fear. She screamed.

If he had imagined their meeting before (which he had too many times than he cared to admit), it either contained her anger or her (futile) attempts at killing him, neither of which he would ever be prepared to face.

(coward? was he a coward? clearly, the most shameful coward who had ever existed, but he _loved her_. still loved her, and he was afraid of what his beloved was capable of. so afraid that he took the safe path rather than end her unspeakable suffering)

Her bony hands were around her neck, her knees attempted to draw themselves up, and she pressed herself as far into her side of the coffin as possible (which was such a small amount of space that it was hardly worth mentioning). What was worth mentioning was that she was terrified, and he had always thought he would be the fearful one.

"It's okay." What a ridiculous thing to tell her! What was okay? Nothing that he could think of. Or maybe everything because they were dead, and really, did any of it matter anymore? "It's okay." And she was scared and right in front of him, unavoidable, and he loved her and wanted to comfort her. He raised his hands to her face. "It's okay, Emily."

She shrank back from his touch, and now she was crying.

"P-please, stay away, skeleton!"

How he had missed that voice, light and childish and helpless!

Skeleton?

Oh, poor Emily, poor, forever-naïve Emily, knowing nothing in the afterlife but an attic window and the sucking swamp. Poor Emily was afraid of a skeleton.

"Shh, shh, Emily, it's okay, it's me-" "Me", and what was that supposed to mean? He was nothing but bones now and the remnants of a suit. He could be anyone in the world. But to her he was, who?, the ghost host, as he told the visiting mortals?, Master Gracey, as his gravestone grandly proclaimed? - "-George. It's George, your George, just me, still me."

"George." It was only murmured, rather breathlessly, and her brain seemed to be trying to remember something, probably about how he had become romantically involved with her murderer and deserved to die. But her brain had always been incredibly inept, and now, technically, she did not have one (and, technically, neither did he). "George." A stronger statement now, and a hint of relief behind it. "George, you're-"

"I'm dead, I know, yes, I'm a skeleton. That's wonderful though, dash it, everything is wonderful, I _have you_."

She was crying again, and he couldn't tell if she was grieving or overjoyed or still somewhat scared or if crying just seemed the best thing to do at the moment. But her fingers were on him, touching his threadbare cloth covered ribs, and he took her shoulders, her arms, down her sides (what had happened to her gown? the swamp had eaten it, of course, her beautiful bride gown, so incomparable to the white of her beautiful, bare bones). Now he was crying too, and she needed him (didn't she always?), and his arms were around her, one hand in her matted curls, bringing her skull to his shoulder.

"I'm dead," she gasped, as though the thought had suddenly just dawned on her all over again.

"And I'll stay with you forever. God, help me, I'm not going to abandon you again."

"Stay." Her searching, scratching, wanting bones. "I love you."

"Emily, yes. Here in the ground with only you until the end of eternity." How much she grasped of what he was saying, he couldn't guess, so he said, "I love you," because he knew that she knew what that meant. The three words that had tortured her for all the lonely years.

He brought their lips together, but they had no brains and no lips, and her toothy mouth tasted even sweeter than her ruby skin and flesh had before.

**The End**


End file.
